Anyone else cooking along with Mr. Ramsay this evening? We've just been out to get the ingredients courtesy of WM Morrison who, it has to be said, had everything in adundance. I bet there's not a king scallop left in a Waitrose this side of Luton.
I know exactly how this interactive TV/kitchen extravaganza will pan out (ha ha) in our gaff.
Eliott will refuse to go to bed for starters. Then he'll moan about having to watch a 'mean man' cooking a dinner instead of Charlotte's Web aka The Pig Film. Once I've forced Eliott to bed on pain of a weekend TV blackout, Matt and Big Richy will start arguing over who gets to be head chef and criticising Ramsay's culinary methods. Richy will giggle whilst winding Matt up to fever pitch. Matt, under pressure, will say that Ramsay is teaching him how to suck eggs (we've already had a chorus of 'steak and frickin' chips - how hard can it be?' this afternoon).
Meanwhile, Jay and myself will get ratted on Kaluha and probably have to go to The Rose and order a double Tia Maria when the chefs get to dessert and realise we've plundered the booty. By around 10.10pm, myself and Jay will be too drunk and senseless to eat. Matt and Ricky will be taking all the credit for Ramsay's genius and Matt shall proclaim: 'These are the best chips I've ever tasted.'
Maybe I'll watch Vera Duckworth kick the bucket instead.
Well, I fell spectacularly off the wagon at the weekend and am currently nursing a red wine, curry and cider hangover so the detox is officially over. Perhaps I didn't need it as much this year? Or perhaps I am fantastically weak-willed? Either way, I had a damn fine weekend of family meet-ups, partying and force-feeding my precious Valium supply to the unsuspecting public.
Last night we went out to celebrate my brother-in-law's birthday. Eliott dressed as a cyberman but looked more like Vince Noir. People keep telling me what a stunner he is all of a sudden. It's funny, because when he was a baby he wasn't an angelic little cherub and was largely ignored by the adoring public (apart from when he was bawling his bonce off). I always remember Minks saying that she expected El to pop out looking like a proper mini-man, and he did exactly that. Now he's growing into those mini-rock star looks and we can't go anywhere it seems without people fawning and telling me (and him - read on) what a looker he is.
The downside to all this is that Eliott is already becoming vain. I can't talk - it must be in the genes. I caught him yesterday, in said cyber-dress, admiring himself in the mirror whilst reciting the list of guests thus: 'Nanny will think I look cool, Uncle Andrew will think I look cool, Auntie B will think I look cool...' and on receiving his first compliment of the evening he turned round to me cooly and whispered, 'see, mummy, I do look cool'. On Monday he told me that, according to his girlfriend, he's 'pretty' (he's THREE gashdannit), and apparently, the best thing about his costumes and nail polish is: 'Everyone looks at me mummy!' I see a future of being chased by dribbling teenage girls (and boys?) as Eliott struts his stuff in outrageously camp high fashion and platform boots. Can't wait.
Convince your husband and child that what they need is a big, fat, feck off holiday in Florida. With a 52" colour TV, a jacuzzi next to the bed and Spiderman and Shrek 3D rides just a stones throw away. They didn't need much convincing.
I'm going to shat my pants with fear/excitment. I might start taking valium now in preparation for the flight.
Let's do it!
Perhaps good is putting it mildly. It was one of the best Christmases I've had, from being an elf at the school fair to treating my dad to a slap-up Christmas dinner. The family spreads were ace (my mulled beef was legendary, though I say so myself), it was all fun, fun, fun at Butlins (or But-ul-ins as Eliott likes to call it) and the hotel there is fabulous - indulgent even. Who'd 'a thunk I'd be saying that about Butlins? NYE was lovely, I raided the TopShop sale and got a new Matthew Williamson (at Debenhams, so don't get too excited) coat for £50 and, best of all, I managed not to even turn the computer on for over a week. Bliss, bliss.
I still hate the first week of January, particularly today, but this year a couple of nice commissions and an encouraging response on my first pitch of '08 has made it a little more bearable. I'm also obsessed with Flight of The Conchords (I love Bret - obviously, he's got a beard), which has given me something other than the doom and gloom of a huge tax bill and impending snow storms to focus my mind on.
Taking of my love of Bret, Matt announced on New Year's Eve that he'd finally worked me out. Apparently, I watch a TV show or film, spot someone with a bit of talent, good hair and nice shoes (beard optional but desirable), and then decide 'I'd like to do the sex with him'. Actually it's more like 'he's nice, if I wasn't married I'd like to go for a nice drink and noodles with him', but let's not split hairs. Anyway, it's nice that Matt has finally got the measure of me. He's even decided (after a decade of loyalty, a wedding and a child) that he is going to start buying bigger boxes of condoms as I'm unlikely to go anywhere now and it will be a sound investment. I'm not sure if I should hug him or hit him - maybe both.
I'm off booze until my birthday again this year, that's eight whole weeks of sobriety. Day two and I don't care yet (turning 34 is a sobering thought) but I'll be craving Pina Coladas come Sunday.
